


Four Score and Nineteen Difficulties

by adaptation



Series: Plan B [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Exposure, F/M, First Time, Genderswap, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Magical Accidents, Military Uniforms, Oral Sex, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Content, Trapped, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Sex, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 10:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adaptation/pseuds/adaptation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Virginity is a social construct created to rob women of their sexual agency,” Stiles retorts.  He hesitates for a second before adding, “And as a woman, I refuse to submit to a patriarchal society that aims to control my sexuality.”</p><p>“You’re not a woman.”</p><p>“Uh.”  Stiles gestures to his body.  “I’m pretty sure that, at the moment, I am.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Score and Nineteen Difficulties

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HalfFizzbin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfFizzbin/gifts).



> This fulfills my Military/Uniform and Exhibitionism/Exposure squares on my Kink Bingo card. >D
> 
> This is also unbeta'd, so feel free to point out any typos or anything you notice so I can fix them. <3

Stiles is so mad he could strangle someone.

Or, he could if he had hands.

He’s been a cat for two days now, and he’s getting really sick of milk and tuna.  But there’s been nothing he can do about it, because to undo the spell, they had to find Morgan, and Morgan had vanished like mountain ash in the wind.  Stiles’s dad still doesn’t know about the whole werewolf thing, and Scott’s mom is allergic to cats, and Allison’s family is fucking crazy, so Stiles has spent the better part of the last forty-two hours prowling around Derek’s creepy house, chasing mice and rubbing his tail on Derek’s face, because it actually feels really nice when Derek pets him and it’s not like Derek has anything better to do.

The being a cat part hasn’t actually been that bad, except that he really does need to get back to his dad.  He’s probably eaten nothing but pizza and bacon for the past two days, and Stiles doesn’t want to turn back into himself only to find his dad with clogged arteries and a carb-and-fat-induced migraine.  Luckily, Scott had been able to use Stiles’s phone to text his dad a quick note about going to Scott’s for the weekend, so the Sheriff wouldn’t be looking for him.  For now.

They’d have probably had this figured out by now if Morgan, being a witch and all, wasn’t so good at cloaking his scent.  Stiles figured he probably had a lot of dangerous things trying to track him down, so he’d gotten really good at disappearing when he wanted to.  Which, you know, good for Morgan and all, but less good for Stiles.

Finally, around noon on Sunday, while Stiles is curled up on the front seat of the Camero while Derek peruses Pet Valu, Derek catches Morgan’s scent.  It’s faint, but it’s there, lingering in the plaza with the Pet Valu and the Domino’s Pizza and the unlicensed chiropractor.  So Derek tosses the bag of canned cat food — not even the name brand kind, seriously, _fuck you_ , Derek — and colourful pom pom balls on the floorboard in front of Stiles, and then tears out of the parking lot, hot on Morgan’s trail.

Or maybe not so hot.  Because when they reach the end of the trail, they’re at some skeevy old storage shack in the woods, and it looks totally deserted.  Derek tells Stiles to wait in the car and heads for the shack, and Stiles follows him, because _really_ , and they take maybe three steps inside before there’s an obnoxious _whoosh_ and some kind of magical barrier shoots up around them.

The lights flick on, and Morgan’s in the doorway, grinning in an annoying self-satisfied sort of way.  Then he sees who’s in the shack, and his grin gives way to unmitigated confusion.  “Derek,” he says, frowning.  He looks over at Stiles.  “And... Felix.”

Ha!  Good one.  If Stiles wasn’t _a goddamn cat,_ he’d be laughing.  Instead, he levels one of those unimpressed faces only cats can pull off on the witch, and Morgan looks at him carefully.

“Is that —?”

“Stiles,” Derek supplies.  Stiles gives an irritated twitch of his tail.  “Undo it.”

“But I —”  Morgan cuts himself off, still frowning at Stiles, and Stiles figures that probably isn’t a good thing.  “ _Oh!_ Did you touch the music box that said Do Not Touch?  In my old place?”

Stiles shifts guiltily.  

“That was an experiment!  I was trying to rig the spell to wear off after a few hours.”

“It didn’t,” Derek says flatly.

“I _said_ it was an experiment.  And you know, I’d really appreciate it if you two would stop walking into my traps.”

Derek glares.  “I’d appreciate it if you’d _stop setting them_.”

“I can’t,” Morgan confesses.  He sounds genuinely sorry about it, too, which makes Stiles want to claw his face a little less.  “There’s a hunter after me.  Persistent son of a bitch.  I’ve been trying to incapacitate him long enough to scrub myself out of his memory.”

“Why is there a hunter after you?” Derek asks, like that’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard.  He’s really good at sounding like that.

“I’m harbouring a fugitive faerie,” he says, and waves his hand dismissively.  “We’re dating.  It’s a thing.”

This conversation is straying a little too far from turning Stiles back into a human, so Stiles hisses and swats at the air.  Derek and Morgan both turn to stare at him for a second, and then Derek shifts his attention back to the witch.  “Undo it,” he says again, and this time there’s an undercurrent of threat in his tone.

There’s a foreign noise from outside — the crunch of gravel, the snap of a twig — and Morgan looks over his shoulder, his whole body tensing.  “Shit,” he curses.  He turns back to Derek and Stiles, pulling a backpack off his shoulder and unzipping it quickly.  “I have to go, it’s the hunter, and you guys tripped up this trap, so I have to run and set the next one before he catches me.  I’ll lure him away from here, don’t worry,” he adds before Derek can threaten to snap his neck.  “But here.  The countercurse is really easy, anybody can undo it.  It’s in this book.”  He tosses a heavy tome at them that claps loudly onto the cement block that constitutes the floor.  “I’ll be back as soon as I can to take down the barrier.”

“Morgan!” Derek snaps, but the witch has already taken off like one of Allison’s arrows, the shack door slamming shut behind him.  The werewolf quietly seethes while Stiles pads over to the book and tries to paw the cover open.  They’re probably stuck here for a while, and if Stiles can spend that while in his own goddamn body, then that’s the route he’s taking.  It doesn’t take too long for him to get pissed off that it takes him a solid forty-five seconds to turn a single page, so he meows at Derek, and after they have a brief glaring contest, Derek crosses the floor and picks up the book, shaking Stiles off it.

“Fine,” he breathes, and starts to flick through the pages.  He stops at the Table of Contents, running one long finger down the list.  Stiles wants to see, and rubbing up against Derek’s leg isn’t convincing Derek to pick him up, so he does things the hard way and uses his claws to climb up Derek’s jeans.  By the time he gets to the leather jacket, Derek has taken the hint and, rolling his eyes, sets Stiles on his shoulder.  

Derek flips the page and continues down the Table of Contents there, and when Stiles sees something promising, he gestures with a little black paw.

“This one?” Derek asks, and Stiles makes a little affirmative cat noise in his throat.  Derek sighs and starts to flip through the pages toward the spell Stiles had spotted.  When he gets there, Derek tries to brush Stiles off his shoulder, and Stiles digs his claws in.  Derek actually flinches.  “Stiles, I’m not turning you human while you’re sitting on my shoulder.”

Oh.  Good point.

Stiles hops off Derek’s shoulder, and then Derek starts reading some Latin out of the book.  Stiles has no idea what it means, so he has no idea if Derek’s doing a decent job of it, but he starts to feel some tingles at the back of his neck, so he figures it must be working.  And then Stiles feels his bones start to shift, his organs growing, moving back to where they belong, and then he’s bigger, and he’s on his hands and knees, and — this shack is really drafty.  Why is he so cold?

Because he’s fucking _naked_.

Stiles scrambles back instinctively, hands flying to cover his dick.  Except it’s not there.

_Why isn’t his dick there?!_

“Holy shit,” he blurts, because when he moves his hands and looks down, he has _boobs._ “Uh. _Derek?!”_

He looks up and Derek is staring at him, eyes wide.  For a few impossibly long beats, they just stare at each other, and then Derek whirls around, covering his eyes.  “Put something on!” he blurts.

“Like _what?_ ” Stiles counters.  He’d ask for Derek’s jacket, but it’s only waist-length; it won’t cover anything that important.

“Check the boxes.”

Only then does Stiles realize that his back is pressed against a stack of dusty cardboard boxes.  He — she? — reluctantly climbs to his feet, keeping one eye on Derek as he moves.  “No peeking, you pervert,” he warns, and his voice is light and feminine.  He can almost hear Derek roll his eyes.

Stiles peels open one of the boxes and, to his surprise, it’s filled with camouflage military jackets.  He eyes one thoughtfully, withdrawing it and shaking it to get some of the dust off.  He doesn’t bother unbuttoning it, just pulls it over his head.  

He only realizes when he feels a tug on his hair that it’s longer, past his shoulders.  He frowns, picking up a strand of hair and eyeing it suspiciously.  It’s his natural colour, but long and silky, and there’s a bit of a curl to it at the end.  “Huh,” he breathes.

“What?” Derek says, his voice tense.  He starts to turn around, but grinds to a halt halfway through the motion.  “Are you decent?”

“Depends who you ask,” Stiles murmurs, and Derek must take that as confirmation, because he turns around completely.  His grey-green-hazel-whatever eyes slide from Stiles’s face down over his body, lingering at the hem of the jacket, which falls barely to mid-thigh, and then all the way down his legs.  Stiles shifts uncomfortably, pressing his dainty knees together, and tugs at the jacket.

“You aren’t wearing any pants.”

“I’m actually aware of that.”

“ _Why_ aren’t you wearing any pants?”  The words are ground out, through clenched teeth, the kind that Derek always gets when Stiles is really pissing him off, and Stiles glares darkly, because how is this _his_ fault?

“Don’t get testy with me, bucko.  You’re the one who turned me into a girl!”  Derek lips press into a thin, unimpressed line, and he forcibly looks away from Stiles to give him the chance to dig through a couple of other boxes.  “These are all just jackets,” Stiles says when he’s sure there’s not a pair of pants in the bunch.  “You’re just going to have to deal with my legs.”  He glances down at said legs.  “Which are, admittedly, pretty awesome.”

Now that the immediacy of his nakedness has been dealt with, Stiles figures he can take a moment to assess his situation.  He wishes there was a mirror in the shack, but, you know, it’s a shack.  And he was a cat before he was a girl — oh god, there’s a pussy joke in there somewhere — so he doesn’t have his phone on him.

“Hey,” he blurts, holding out a hand to Derek, “let me see your phone.”

“No.”

He blinks.  “You don’t even consider it.  Just ‘no’.”  When he says it, he lowers his voice comically and does his best Derek impersonation, which is considerably less accurate than normal since his voice is about two octaves higher than it usually is.  “Come on, I wanna take a picture.  I need to see how hot I am.”

Derek rolls his eyes, _again_ — and it would be really cool if he could stop doing that — and pulls his phone out of his pocket.  He punches a couple of buttons and then holds it up in front of Stiles.  A few seconds later, Stiles hears the fake shutter sound that signifies a picture’s been taken, and then Derek holds out the phone to him.  

The girl in the photo is... really pretty, actually.  She looks sort of like how Stiles regularly looks, except her features are more feminine.  Her lips are a little plumper, her eyelashes a little longer, cheekbones more pronounced, jaw thinner.  He can’t see her figure well under the jacket, but she’s clearly got boobs — he cups one through the jacket just to make sure — and her legs are long, pale.

He stares at the picture for a few moments longer, and then forwards it to his own phone.  Then he passes the cell back to Derek, who cocks an eyebrow pointedly at him, and Stiles realizes he’s still holding his boob.  He lets go.

“Turn around,” he says to Derek, who just stares at him.  Stiles gives him _come on_ face.  “I wanna... you know, check things out.  I don’t want you peeping at me, so...”  He makes a twirly motion in the air with his finger.  Looking distinctly like he’s about to grumble, Derek shoves his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and turns around to face the wall.

Satisfied that he’s got all the privacy he’s going to get, Stiles pulls the jacket away from his body and peeks down the collar.  Yeah, he’s got a pretty rocking body.  He’s got a C-cup, easy, and —

He slides a hand up between his legs and touches himself.  Not in the masturbation way, just to feel things out.  It’s weird, because he’s never touched a vagina — vulva?  he thinks it’s vulva — before, and it’s... fleshy.  Not that he didn’t expect it to be, it’s just interesting.  It’s really hot, too.  Not in the sexy way, just literally hot.  Or maybe he just thinks it is because his fingers are cold.

“Are you —?” Derek starts, and he starts to turn around.

“Dude!” Stiles exclaims.  Derek jerks back around to face the wall, hopefully before he can see anything.

He straightens, stops touching anything inappropriate, and then finally looks around to assess their situation.  The shack they’re in is old as fuck, as far as Stiles can tell, probably used to store wood back in the day.  Maybe somebody rented it out, and that’s where all the boxes came from.  Maybe some military uniform manufacturer went out of business and stored his extra stock in the woods for no reason.  But the shack’s on a cement platform that’s cold on Stiles’s bare feet, and he can feel the barrier Morgan put up vibrating with magic around the walls.

“So we’re stuck in here, right?” 

Derek glances tentatively over his shoulder to make sure Stiles isn’t feeling himself up, and then heads for the doorway.  He steps to cross the threshold and then promptly bounces off of it like he just walked into the wall of a bouncy castle.  Stiles snorts, and Derek glares at him.

“Alright, so I guess we’re in here until Morgan gets back,” Stiles says.  “And I’m a girl until that happens.”  They both glance at the spell book that fell to the floor in the midst of all Stiles’s girl parts.  “Not that I don’t appreciate the effort, and thanks for making me not a cat, but I think I’m gonna wait for the actual witch to try to fix this, ‘cause my penis is pretty important to me.”

Derek has the grace to look a little bit embarrassed when he glances over at Stiles, but he doesn’t apologise.  Not that Stiles expects him to.  He doesn’t think Derek knows how.

After a moment of silence, Stiles blurts, “So I think we should have sex.”

Derek blinks.  And then he blinks again, like he thinks that will undo what Stiles just said.  It doesn’t, so he says, “What?”

“Well, seriously!” Stiles exclaims, shrugging helplessly.  “When am I going to get this chance again?  To experience sex from the opposite sex perspective.  I’ve gotta know what it’s like, dude.”

“You want me to fuck you,” Derek repeats, eyes wide and disbelieving, “to satisfy your curiosity.”

“Basically, yeah.”

“No.”

“Aw, come on!  I’m hot!  You’re hot.  And I _know_ you need to get laid.”  

Derek glares darkly.  “You’re a virgin,” he protests.

“Virginity is a social construct created to rob women of their sexual agency,” Stiles retorts.  He hesitates for a second before adding, “And as a woman, I refuse to submit to a patriarchal society that aims to control my sexuality.”

“You’re not a woman.”

“Uh.”  Stiles gestures to his body.  “I’m pretty sure that, at the moment, I am.”

Derek shakes his head slowly and leans back against the wall of the shack, looking skyward as though some divine entity will descend from the heavens to save him from this conversation.

Stiles can’t help but be a little offended.  The rejection stings, and if he’s being honest it’s not just because his pride is wounded.  Derek’s _Derek_ , and they both know Stiles has been desperately trying to tamp down a crush on him for months.  They don’t talk about it, of course, because that would be super fucking embarrassing.  Stiles knows Derek doesn’t want him, because how _could_ he?  And he doesn’t think Derek even _likes_ guys.  But, for the moment, Stiles _isn’t_ a guy, and he thought...

He wasn’t lying about the curiosity.  That’s _at least_ half his motivation.  But the other half is... you know.  Derek.

Derek who’s actually looking at him now, his eyes a little darker than usual.  For the second time, they trail over Stiles’s body, from head to foot and back up again, and Stiles feels his whole body alight with anticipatory tingles.  There’s an unfamiliar throb between his legs when Derek’s eyes finally meet his, followed by an equally unfamiliar rush of dampness.  He squeezes his thighs together, hoping that will help quell the feeling.  It doesn’t.

It’s subtle, but he notices when Derek scents the air, knows what Derek finds there.

Derek’s voice is a few tones lower when he pushes off the wall, takes a half a step toward Stiles, and says, “Are you sure?”

Stiles nods, and then Derek’s kissing him.

Everything happens all at once, and it’s sensory overload.  He’s pressed up against the wall of the shack, and it’s hard and cool even through the fabric of the military jacket he’s wearing.  Derek’s mouth is on his, maneuvering his lips apart before Stiles can even figure out what’s happening.  Two strong hands encircle his ribcage through the jacket, and the fabric is harsh on his oversensitive, never-touched skin.  Derek’s tongue skates over his teeth, drags along the roof of his mouth, and Stiles lets a wanton moan slip, clinging to Derek’s shoulders like he’ll drown if he doesn’t.

Derek’s hand fists in Stiles’s hair, the other one trailing down his front, pulling open the buttons on the jacket until a smooth line of pale, feminine skin shows through.  Derek presses that hand against the base of Stiles’s throat, palm flat, and then drags it down, between Stiles’s breasts, over his ribcage, dipping into his bellybutton and then raking through the soft, dark curls between his legs.  A preemptively shuddery breath escapes Stiles as the pad of Derek’s middle finger presses into his clit, and _holy shit_.  He read somewhere that the clitoris has twice the number of nerve endings as a penis in a fraction of the space, and he _totally fucking believes it._   His knees almost buckle as Derek’s fingers slide lower, the heel of his palm grinding into Stiles’s clit as that devilish finger dips shallowly into him.

Derek mouths along his jaw as he tests Stiles’s wetness, and, finding it satisfactory, he slides one long finger into Stiles as far as he can.  Stiles whimpers, head falling back against the wall.  “Derek,” he gasps, and then Derek pulls his hand out from between Stiles’s legs.

Stiles forces his eyes open to see what the problem is, and he’s just in time to catch Derek pushing that finger past his lips, into his mouth.  He sucks it clean, pulls it from his mouth with a pop, and Stiles gapes, thighs hopelessly slick with want.  “Fuck,” he says.

“Do you want to stop?” Derek asks.  Stiles shakes his head dimly.  Derek apparently finds that an acceptable answer, because he grabs Stiles around the waist and hoists him effortlessly onto the stack of boxes with all the jackets in them.  Derek pulls Stiles’s hips to the edge of the box, sinks to his knees between Stiles’s thighs.  Then his mouth is open over Stiles’s clit.

He doesn’t clamp down at first, just lets his breath — god, it feels _scalding_ — sink into the skin, and Stiles shudders.  Then those lips, those _fucking lips_ , come down around Stiles’s clitoris, and Derek sucks gently.  His hands come up to Stiles’s legs when Stiles starts to shrink away from the intensity of it, and he hooks Stiles’s knees over his shoulders.  The worn leather of Derek’s jacket is cool against his calves, and Stiles leans back on one arm, propping himself up on the boxes and threading his fingers through Derek’s hair as Derek licks him.

“Jesus, Derek, _fuck_ ,” Stiles curses, because _damn_ , he never expected _this._ And Derek’s good at it, _really_ good at it, and as his mouth migrates lower, tongue lapping at his entrance, Stiles’s legs start to shake.  Derek’s arm curls around one of Stiles’s thighs so his thumb can press against Stiles’s clit, flicking lightly as Derek circles the tip of his tongue around the edges of Stiles’s opening.

Stiles is starting to feel like he’s got a fever.  He can’t stay still, he’s squirming, trying to get Derek closer, but one hand it tight on his hip, stopping him from thrashing too much, and then Derek’s mouth slips lower still, and he licks a hot stripe from Stiles’s ass all the way to his clit.  Stiles cries out, head falling back on his shoulders, and he’s going to come soon, he can feel it, but it’s different because usually he can feel it building in his balls, and this time he doesn’t have those, so it’s just a tightening in his gut, a really intense pressure where it starts to feel like his whole body is locking up, getting tense.  Then Derek slides two fingers deeply into him, crooking them up at exactly the right moment, and Stiles totally _shatters_.

Derek fingerfucks him all the way through the orgasm, tongue flicking insistently over his clit the whole time, and when the shudders finally subside, Derek slinks his way up Stiles’s body.  They’re both breathing hard, and Derek’s mouth is shiny with his fluids, but Stiles pulls him into a kiss anyway.  It’s deep and filthy, and he can taste himself on Derek’s tongue.  Derek swallows the appreciative groan that escapes Stiles, his thumb idly tracing Stiles’s nipple as they kiss.

Part of him wants to ask if Derek’s really into this, into _him_ , or if he’s just doing this because Stiles is willing and tomorrow he’ll be a guy again and they can pretend it didn’t really happen.  But he can’t, because he doesn’t really want to know the answer.

Derek’s hand traces idly up and down Stiles’s thigh, almost in an affectionate way, and Stiles decides then that he needs Derek with every fibre of his being.  So he reaches with unsteady hands to Derek’s belt and pulls the leather through the buckle.  The kiss breaks as he pops the button through the hole of Derek’s jeans — it goes easily, its path well-beaten from years of doing up and undoing — and Derek leans his forehead against Stiles’s, eyelids heavy.  His breath is hot and damp on Stiles’s skin as Stiles eases the zipper down carefully over Derek’s erection.

He’s really hard.  Ridiculously hard.  And he’s not wearing any underwear.

Stiles palms Derek’s erection, pulling it carefully from its denim confines, and Derek gives a grateful little murmur in his ear.  He directs the head of Derek’s cock to his entrance, and Derek’s hands find his hips, angling them up to fix the aim.  Then he pushes in, one long, smooth thrust, that isn’t too fast, isn’t too hard, and doesn’t hurt that badly.  It’s like a burning sensation, the kind you get from working a muscle that never gets attention, and when Derek plants fully inside him, Stiles swears the explosion of feeling that ricochets through him drowns out the pain entirely.

His hands fly up to Derek’s shoulders, gripping tightly through the leather, and Derek only gives him a moment to adjust before he starts searching out the perfect rhythm.  He finds it, quick and just forceful enough to make Stiles rock with it every time he lands inside him.  Stiles is oversensitive from the orgasm, and isn’t sure if it’s the best or the worst thing ever.  “Hnnhn, oh, fuck, _yeah_ ,” he groans as Derek nips down his throat and starts sucking a vicious hickey into the base of Stiles’s neck.  Stiles babbles, because his brain is too full with thoughts, and because that’s what he does when he can’t keep his thoughts in anymore.  “Uhn, _Derek_ , god, I knew this would be good, I _knew_ it.”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek grinds out, his name reverberating off Stiles’s skin.

“Oh, yeah, don’t stop, _fuck_ , I’m gonna —” 

Derek either knows what Stiles is gonna or doesn’t care, because he smothers the word with his mouth, his tongue plunging into Stiles’s mouth as hard and insistently as he fucks him.  Stiles moans enthusiastically, squirming with the need to feel Derek everywhere, all over, all the time, and he murmurs as much against Derek’s lips just as Derek’s hips start picking up speed.

Stiles comes for the second time a split second before Derek comes for the first.  He clamps down around Derek, and Derek does his best to keep fucking him, but his thrusts turn stuttery and uneven, and his grip on Stiles’s hips tightens to the point where Stiles knows he’ll have bruises later and doesn’t give a single fuck.  When the orgasms pass, Stiles has a matching hickey on the other side of his neck, too, where Derek decided to smother his groan.

For a while, they stay like that, leaning on each other, waiting for their breathing to slow and their heart rates to drop back down to normal.  Eventually, Derek pulls away.  Stiles probably imagines the reluctance he detects.  Derek tucks himself back into his jeans, and Stiles starts trying to rebutton his damn jacket, but his fingers are still a little shaky and it takes him two or three tries to get each separate one through its hole.

They’re silent for a long while, the pause growing pregnant and Stiles growing more and more awkward.  He’s never done well with silence.

Finally, he snaps.  He doesn’t know what he’s going to say before he opens his mouth, just that he needs to say _something._   So he says, “So that was —”

That’s as far as he gets, because Morgan pokes his head into the room, surveying the scene in front of him.  He frowns when his eyes find Stiles.  “You weren’t a lady last time you were human, right?”

“You’re hilarious,” Stiles says flatly.  “Undo it.”

Morgan enters the shack, the magical barrier disappearing entirely, but he hesitates in his response.  “You sure?” he asks, his eyes shifting from Stiles to Derek and back again.  “You could always just stay —”

“ _No_ ,” Stiles and Derek chorus.  They meet each other’s eyes for a second, and then Derek looks guiltily away, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his illegally tight jeans.

“Undo it,” Stiles says again, quieter this time, because, while he doesn’t want to stay a girl, does Derek really have to be so emphatic about it?  Morgan frowns, looking between them once more, but he nods and picks up the spell book nevertheless. 

“Why did this happen?” Derek asks as Morgan flips through pages, searching for the right one.

“The countercurse for the cat thing is fairly basic,” he says, stopping in his progress and then backtracking a few pages.  “You probably just mixed up the pronunciation on the pronoun.  The Latin words for _her_ and _him_ are remarkably close, and if you used the wrong one... well...”  He gestures haphazardly at Stiles, still sitting on the pile of cardboard boxes and wearing nothing but a military jacket.  “Alright, here we go.”

This spell is fairly easy, too, because it’s just undoing something that was done, not creating a whole state of being for someone, like making a female out of a biological male.  It’s like unravelling a lot of complicated knitting, Morgan says, and Stiles has a really vivid visual of Morgan sitting by a fireplace, knitting a wooly scarf while Christmas songs play from an old-time radio.  And then Stiles is a guy again.  His legs are all hairy, and his knuckles are knobby, and his hair’s way shorter, his eyebrows are bushier, and, after a quick feel to make sure everything’s in order, he’s sure he’s got the right bits and pieces back.  And while having a vagina was interesting, he’s glad he has his dick back, because he’s kind of fond of it.

Stiles grabs an extra jacket to wrap around his waist, because the one he’s wearing is covering even less now, and Derek drives him back home.  They’re quiet the whole ride, Stiles fiddling with the bag of now-unneeded cat supplies at his feet.  When Derek pulls to a stop at the curb outside Stiles’s house, there’s an awkward moment of hesitation where Stiles thinks he should maybe say something, but for once in his life he’s at a total loss for words.  So when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is, “Thanks for making me not a cat.”  

Derek doesn’t say anything.  His jaw just clenches, his fingers tightening on his steering wheel, and Stiles exhales an exasperated little huff of breath as he climbs out of the car.  Derek speeds off before he’s even halfway up the driveway, and Stiles thinks fucking Derek Hale might have been the worst idea he’s ever had.  And that’s saying something.

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to [JenNova](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JenNova) for allowing me to borrow Morgan from her [Famous Last Words](http://archiveofourown.org/series/26092) verse! I had a lot of fun with him. >D
> 
> And feel free to follow me on [Tumblr](http://icanseeyourtoner.tumblr.com), if you like!


End file.
